


Far and Away

by compo67



Series: Punzel Verse [31]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Estrangement, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Healing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Strained Relationships, Therapy, Timestamp, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 02:11:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15547302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: According to Jared’s therapist, dedicating a set amount of time to spend with Tristan will provide them a way to restore routine and strengthen trust. In a session with Tristan, Jared agreed to set aside four hours every Thursday afternoon to take Tristan to his clinic appointment and then go enjoy a meal together. They will spend this time together, just the two of them--no significant others, children, or well-wishers.That seemed alright, harmless, what was the worst that could happen in four hours?





	Far and Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



> please read the tags! content in this fic could be super heavy/triggering for folks! <3

**Tristan:**

Tristan sits in an uncomfortable plastic chair and squeezes a stress ball in the shape of cow in his right hand. A disposable tourniquet attempts to cut off all the circulation in his right arm. 

Seji, the lab tech charged with collecting seven tubes of blood from Tristan, hums what sounds like a Lady Gaga song. He isn’t the same lab tech as last month, but he seems to know what he’s doing. Hopefully. Maybe. He’s nice enough to let Tristan know when to breathe out as the needle goes in.

Blood rushes into each tube with surprising efficiency. The way fatigue has kicked his ass lately, he assumed his blood would flow like non-alcoholic beer on Super Bowl Sunday. By the third tube, Seji snaps off the tourniquet. By the fifth, Tristan debates calling it quits. Holy fuck does it hurt. 

“Sexxx Dreams,” he grits out, forcing himself to look away from his right arm. Look at the poster on the wall advocating a balanced diet. 

Without missing a beat, Seji answers, “Nope. Bad Romance.” He swaps out the fifth tube for the sixth. “I like Sexxx Dreams, but I’m eh about the ARTPOP album overall. Last one.” 

Six becomes seven becomes Tristan pressing down on a piece of gauze while Seji slaps labels on the tubes containing ninety percent of Tristan’s entire blood volume. Fuck fuck fuck. Every week, they draw two tubes--except the last week of the month. If Tristan didn’t have a potentially fatal virus, he’d swear The Common Ground Clinic was making bank off his blood. 

Moving around the lab at a quick pace, Seji sorts the tubes. Where they go from here, Tristan has no idea. The lab leprechauns will call him with the results in twenty-four to forty-eight hours just like last month.

“You’re free to go,” Seji announces, writing notes on a clipboard. “Oh, wait.” 

Tristan prays they didn’t miss a tube. There’s no way he has another tube of blood left in him. If a vampire crosses his path as he leaves the clinic, he’ll have nothing to offer. And won’t that be a goddamn waste of an opportunity, especially if the vampire looks anything like Brad Pitt. 

Seji holds up one cherry lollipop and one green apple lollipop. “Take your pick.” 

“...do you have orange?” 

“Do I have orange, he asks,” Seji laughs. He turns and magically produces an orange lollipop. “Most people go for cherry or green apple, so I stopped offering anything else. Good to see you follow the beat of your own drum.”

“Thanks,” Tristan murmurs, already sticking the lollipop in his mouth. “Catch you next month.”

“Same bat time, same bat channel.” 

“You know, the dude who used to do this before you never gave out lollipops.”

With a shrug, Seji smiles. “I’m still new to the area. I figure I should make friends, not enemies. You know, while I can. People seem to hate lab techs with a passion. Something about jabbing a needle in their arms and taking out large amounts of blood. Go figure.”

Rubbing his right arm, Tristan nods. He can see it. But at least this tech seems to care--and he provides free sugar. At any clinic across California, Tristan never expects to encounter anyone who has both of those attributes. 

“I work at Freddy’s on the weekends,” Tristan says, halfway out the door. “Good place for a beer if you haven’t found a watering hole yet. See ya.” 

Look at that.

Not only did he go to the clinic on time, but he was actually civil towards the staff. 

Will wonders never fucking cease.

 

**Jared:**

Jared explains the Pinterest recipe for perfect chocolate chip cookies to Ashley at patient check-in.

He leans against the pale gray counter and assures her the whole recipe is vegetarian. “Okay, you need like, one egg, but just one! I think there’s something to be said about buying quality vanilla extract and chocolate. But you have to go with semisweet.”

Ashley carefully considers the pin on Jared’s phone. “Seventy-four five star reviews, that’s not bad.” 

Before Jared can recommend what type of organic brown sugar to buy, a patient emerges from the lab. 

The patient happens to be Jared’s twin brother. Jared spots the lollipop in Tristan’s mouth and rolls his eyes. “I hope you didn’t pick that up off the floor. Bye, Ash. See you next month. Tell Chrissy I said hi.”

Tristan grumbles something along the lines of yes, he did find the lollipop on the floor, and before he put it in his mouth, he gave it a good rinse in one of the urinals. Jared ignores this. He has three six year olds at home--he can handle his brother for an afternoon without his blood pressure skyrocketing. 

If life needs to teach a person to have patience, life gives that person triplets. 

“I made reservations at the True Food Kitchen,” Jared announces and holds the door open for Tristan as they leave the clinic. 

Predictably, Tristan sighs. “What happened to Georgie’s? Or Mac’s? They just added a chili bacon cheeseburger.” 

With a flip of his hair, and in one fluid motion, Jared slips his sunglasses on. “No, you chose last time. I thought maybe we could try eating at a place that doesn’t openly support heart disease.” 

“Mac’s doesn’t support heart disease. You’re still sore I won the contest.”

“First of all.” Jared unlocks the doors to the cobalt Honda Odyssey. “Healthy food doesn’t have anything to do with the motto, ‘If you can’t add bacon to it, it ain’t worth eating.’ Second of all, I didn’t agree to any contest. You just said, ‘Watch me eat this,” and I very regrettably did.” 

Tristan climbs into the passenger seat and stretches out. “Fine. Whatever. When did you get the mom mobile?”

“I didn’t,” Jared clarifies. “Misha traded in his SUV for this.”

“So why’s he letting your ass drive it?”

“Because I’m the mother of his children.” 

“So he doesn’t know you’re driving it. Smooth.”

It’s almost a shame that the minivan drives like a cloud, because right now, Jared feels like hitting some potholes in the hope that Tristan will smack his head against the window. Or the dashboard. Whichever one would hurt more. 

No, ugh, bad. He’s supposed to be warming up to his brother, not wanting to inflict harm on him. 

According to Jared’s therapist, dedicating a set amount of time to spend with Tristan will provide them a way to restore routine and strengthen trust. In a session with Tristan, Jared agreed to set aside four hours every Thursday afternoon to take Tristan to his clinic appointment and then go enjoy a meal together. They will spend this time together, just the two of them--no significant others, children, or well-wishers. 

That seemed alright, harmless, what was the worst that could happen in four hours? 

But then Jared’s therapist pushed for Sunday dinners as a way to gradually integrate each other into their respective families and support systems. Because repairing their estranged relationship wasn’t enough, they had to agree to subject their families to the shit show on top of it. Jared argued that the kids weren’t ready. Tristan argued that there were too many people at Jared’s house. 

In the end, the only person in the room with a PhD in Counseling won. 

Jared sat in that session and listened to how sibling estrangement is common and how they could heal the rift. Tristan only opened his mouth to complain; Jared couldn’t help but snap about Tristan’s complaining. It felt like childhood all over again in that one session, except they were paying to argue with each other in front of someone else.

What stopped their arguing was Jared’s therapist interrupting to make the point that the very least they could do was show their children the value of sibling relationships.

The triplets deserved to see it from Jared, and Tristan’s girlfriend’s son deserved to see it from Tristan.

After all, Jared’s therapist posed, Jared and Tristan were no longer in Texas, under their parents’ thumbs. A large source of the abusive fuel between them was not a factor anymore. 

That seemed too simplistic to Jared. 

Going over to Tristan’s apartment every other Sunday--and having Tristan over to the house--seems like a Pinterest recipe for disaster. Their first Sunday dinner is in three days. The rules are: meaningful, compassionate conversation must take place, the food does not have to be extravagant, no TV or music in the background, and the guest must take time to interact with the host’s family.

Eventually, their families will have Sunday dinners together, all in one place, like one big Norman Rockwell painting. 

Jared isn’t one hundred percent sure he’ll make it that far without punching his brother. 

After a short sigh, Jared mutters, “Did you get your refills?” 

Always the conversationalist, Tristan replies with, “Yes, I got ‘em.” 

Turning right onto Pacific Avenue, Jared prays for minimal traffic. He relishes the minivan’s luxury features in an effort to concentrate on something other than Tristan’s annoying lack of conversation. Staying with Tristan for four days in the ICU and the three days in general care, has not made conversation between them as easy as pie. 

What they have now is something more like one of the cakes Hailey baked for Jeff’s birthday--burned on the outside, completely raw on the inside.

In fact, Jared could have more stimulating conversation with one of the stuffed animals Kaylee forces to have tea with her every hour on the hour. Those poor stuffed animals have seen things. 

Their arrival at the True Food Kitchen provides Jared and Tristan with a whole new backdrop in which not to speak to each other. Jared studies the menu and hopes this place is as good as Misha said. Quite a few things on the menu appeal to him, like the pomegranate chia limeade or the kale aid made with kale, ginger, apple, celery, cucumber, and lemon. As for the food, he could go for a salad, or maybe that grilled artichoke and pesto pizza. 

Tristan sets down his menu and looks at Jared, clearly unhappy. “Why would you bring me here? There’s nothing I wanna eat. It’s all got kale on it or in it.”

Oh god, not this. Jared pushes down the urge to snap at Tristan that even the kids will eventually try new food with enough encouragement. Sitting straight in his chair, glad to be outside on the patio, Jared reaches for the pitcher of water on the table. 

“You’ve lived in Santa Monica for how long and suddenly kale seems foreign to you?” Jared munches on one of the cucumber slices from the water pitcher. “They have a grass-fed burger. Get that.” 

“Probably has grass in it,” Tristan grumbles. “Do you eat like this all the time?”

Unable to hold back on the sarcasm, Jared grumbles back, “No, I just picked this place to make you suffer. Thought the asparagus toast would just about do it.” 

Unable to hold back on his sarcasm, Tristan scowls, “What crawled up your butt and died today?”

Good lord. There isn’t enough pomegranate chia limeade in the world--and they haven’t spent more than an hour in each other’s company so far today. 

Their waiter, a god among men, hustles over and apologizes for the wait. Jared orders a white wine sangria, a side of hummus, and the grilled artichoke and pesto pizza. As if at gunpoint, Tristan orders a watermelon lemonade and the grass-fed burger, no mushrooms, extra cheese, medium rare. 

Unfortunately, the waiter can’t stay with them and play referee. He gives Jared an empathetic look before rushing off to place their order. When their drinks arrive, the black cloud above their table momentarily clears. Fuck yes, alcohol. 

Jared speaks only after three long sips. He tries his best to smooth out the tone of his voice. “Look. Let’s talk about Sunday. We still have to figure out your place or mine.” 

Sitting across from Tristan still causes a familiar sting. Things were easier between them in the hospital, mostly because they were never alone together for any extended period of time. Nurses, doctors, staff, and visitors were always in and out. Jared was able to meet Tristan’s girlfriend, Miya, but it was brief and the focus was not on chatting or getting to know each other. Jared and Miya took turns staying overnight with Tristan, and in the end, Tristan was discharged to her care. 

Hummus, warm pita bread, and a side of carrots grace the middle of their table. 

Out of anxiety, Jared starts serving himself and Tristan. Also out of anxiety--and a fun sense of overwhelming, unresolved trauma--Jared starts to ramble. 

“You can come over to our place this Sunday. I can ask the guys to step out for the evening so it’ll just be you, me, Jensen, and the kids. We try to have dinner by six, so I can start wrestling the kids into taking a bath by eight, and god willing, have them in bed by nine. Can you believe Thanksgiving is next week? Guess we’ll have to have lunch on a different day. Not Black Friday. I never leave the house on Black Friday. Well, I did last year to work, but it was only half a shift.” 

Right before he starts cutting up the pita bread into more manageable bites, Jared forces himself to stop fussing and only touch and eat his own food. 

“Sorry,” he blurts out, stuffing a piece of pita into his mouth. “Well…”

Tristan raises an eyebrow. He pokes at the hummus on his plate with a triangle of pita bread. “You always were the talkative one,” he states, with a roll of his eyes. “Surprised you’re not out of breath.” 

“We’re supposed to be bonding,” Jared snaps. “That means talking. I’m trying. All you’re doing is sitting there, pouting, telling me that  _ I’m _ the one with a stick up my ass.” 

“You  _ are _ ,” Tristan answers with a bite of his burger. “Jared, you’ve been in a pissy mood with me every single time we’ve tried to hang out after I got out of the hospital. I said I wanted to work on this. I went to therapy with you. I’m grateful that you come with me to my appointments.” Texas filters out in his accent, quick and humid. “I’ve thanked you, I’ve apologized--over and over again. I know I’m a sarcastic fuck, but you have this way of just… taking over. Like I can’t get a word in. Or you treat me like one of your kids. I tell you I don’t wanna eat here, you steamroll right on through. I tell you there’s too many people at your place, you don’t listen.”

“I have three kids, Tris! What do you want me to do about that?” 

“Tell me my concern is valid, goddammit. Tell me you’ve got it covered and you’ll make sure the kids aren’t sick and you’re prepared to tell them why I am. You haven’t even told me how you want to introduce me. I can’t tell them that yeah, sorry, I was an asshole to your mom way back when after he slept with my friend from high school and got pregnant with y’all.” 

Not even the waiter can help them now.

Jared sets down his fork and knife, and clings to the cloth napkin in his lap. Steady. Breathe. Don’t let the flashback take over. Focus. Resolve issues one at a time. Break them down into pieces, if necessary. 

This ain’t Texas.

This ain’t that motel room.

And sitting across from him is not Milo. Or their parents. 

How many apologies from Tristan will it take so that when they sit down together, it no longer hurts? 

With a deep, shaky breath, Jared asks, “What do you remember about Milo?” 

Tristan’s face twists into a mean scowl. “Why are we talking about him? This is about you and me. Mostly about the damn whiplash I feel. You spoon fed me Jell-O in the hospital, helped me use a freaking bed pan, hell, you even offered up your own blood. But now, it’s like… I’m just your trash brother you’ve been saddled with.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jared says in a rush. “I don’t know. How to act. How to treat you. How do I talk to you? How do I sit here and share a meal with you after everything? And there’s still so much that you don’t know.”

Leaning in, Tristan practically whispers, “You can’t keep punishing me, Jared. I don’t have answers--this is tough for me too. All I know is I wanna be here. But not if you keep holding shit over my head that I have either apologized for or shit I don’t know about because you haven’t told me. Or won’t tell me. I don’t know which one it is anymore.”

If Jared had to describe Santa Monica in three words, he might say something like: entertaining, expensive, and liberating. He likes his life here. He enjoys his neighbors, his neighborhood, and the life he’s built up one sacrifice at a time. 

He doesn’t understand why his haven has to allow in ghosts he worked so hard to shut out. 

Jared wipes at his eyes and laughs because what else? 

“It’s not that simple,” Jared says, his voice entirely unfamiliar to himself. “It’s not as simple as ‘my friend from high school got you pregnant.’ He raped me. That’s what actually happened.”

Of all the ways Jared has talked about his trauma, he hadn’t pictured talking about it over sangria and watermelon lemonade on a patio off of 2nd Street and Broadway in the middle of a Thursday afternoon.

Tristan’s silence doesn’t surprise him. 

The fact that Jared said a piece of his trauma without it then pulling him down an abyss of panic, anger, grief, and ultimate numbness surprises him. He is, in this moment, alright. 

A little weary, but alright.

He sits there, unsure of what to do in the aftermath. Should he say more? Provide more details? Push past it, deflect, ask to talk about something else? He hasn’t gotten this far in therapy yet--how to disclose his trauma to people outside of his immediate family. 

There are an infinite number of ways to heal from trauma.

It seems like Jared prefers the method based on cramming everything down and steamrolling any unresolved issues. He knows this. He sits on a couch twice a week, for an hour each session, and tries to make sense of the inner workings of his mind. In the past, if he pushed past shit, then there was nothing to worry about, nothing to deal with. And if there was nothing to deal with, then there was no reason to hurt.

Only about a minute has passed and neither of them have said anything. The more time passes, the more the silence transforms from a bruise to a permanent mark over their afternoon.

To make things worse, the food isn’t great. 

And now all Jared wants is a greasy burger with extra cheese and a side of garlic fries. Maybe one day he’ll admit to Tristan that Mac’s might have been the better option.

Maybe.

 

**Tristan:**

This morning, Tristan woke up next to Miya.

She was already awake, but still in bed, reading a book about roller derby. He can’t remember if it was fiction or nonfiction. Was that a sign he should buy her a pair of skates? How many years has it been since he skated? It’s not exactly a great hobby for someone barely out of a stint in the ICU, but he could teach her and Kevin. 

They didn’t talk about roller derby or skating at all this morning. But he thought about it as he made her breakfast and got Kevin ready for school. 

He can’t directly participate in it. But he can help from the sidelines.

Tristan sits in his chair across from Jared at a restaurant he wouldn’t have given a second look at had it bit him in the ass. It’s true--he’s lived in Santa Monica long enough to know that kale is king and everyone fucking loves it on or in everything. But that doesn’t mean he’s a regular customer at any of those places. Or a customer at all. 

What he would like to do is often very different from what he should do. He tries to focus on breathing, because while he would like to flip the table and threaten to murder a dead man, that doesn’t mean he should.

It’s odd to sit across the one person in the entire world that shares his exact DNA and looks like a mirror image of himself. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so odd if they had grown up differently. Or grown up the same?

Momma would say a Bible verse right about now.

She’d have plenty to choose from.

Pops. Tristan can’t decide. Would he come up with his own Bible verse? Or echo momma’s? Or would he go straight for the shotgun he kept in the den? Or would he go for the shotgun at all? Which response would be worse? Caring so much as to threaten violence or not caring at all? 

Fuck.

He knows what everyone else would do.

What can he do? The rapist is dead. Nothing he does or says can save Jared from going through that. Guilt grips his windpipe and refuses to let go. Acid bubbles in his stomach. He set them up. He introduced them. He listened to Milo’s sob story about not wanting to die a virgin and decided to help him out. He bought into it. Told him that back in Texas, Jared had crushed on him hard. All Milo had to do was get out to California and Tristan would coordinate the whole thing.

But it’s not like he didn’t tell Jared about it beforehand. 

He heard Jared agree to it.

And once he left, he assumed things went fine. Milo went back to Texas. A few weeks later, Tristan received a text from a mutual friend that Milo died and services were going to be held that Sunday at the one funeral home in town.

A sharp pain in his chest amplifies an internal scream. He didn’t bother to check on Jared. He didn’t even ask how the hookup went.

Hands clenched, Tristan fights against the urge to keep drowning in his own thoughts and emotions.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Every time he tells someone he’s HIV positive, he waits for their judgement. He braces himself for some shit about how it’s his fault so why be upset about it, or that’s what he gets for his choice in lifestyle, or how God has a plan for everyone. 

Exactly none of that has ever been helpful or welcomed.

“I’m sorry,” Tristan says, his lips chapped and body aching. He meets Jared’s eyes. Catches how sunlight brings out the natural highlights in his hair. Notices the lack of bags underneath a pair of eyes that look so much like his own. He looks at a person in the middle of healing.

Pride taps at his heart. Somehow, his mouth catches up.

“I’m so sorry you went through that shit, Jared. I… holy fuck.” He wipes at his eyes, frustrated that he can’t get the words out the way they form in his head. “I had no idea. I’m sorry I didn’t ask. And that I wasn’t there. That I didn’t stop it--him.” 

How is it possible to be identical twins and still not know everything about each other? 

When did they stop knowing everything about each other?

He taps Jared’s foot under the table. “Say something. Please.” 

Jared looks on, his eyes cold and expression guarded. “You’re apologizing? You mean, you believe me?”

“Of course I believe you,” Tristan immediately replies. “You tell someone shit like this, you believe them. Why?” His tone goes low. “Does someone not believe you?” 

“No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just. I didn’t think you’d believe that Milo did something like that.”

Their food is cold. Their waiter checks in on them every other minute or so, from a distance, probably to make sure Tristan doesn’t flip the table. Traffic on Broadway starts to accumulate. Someone plays reggae music at maximum volume while waiting for the light to change. 

Tristan glances at the bruise forming on his right arm--a souvenir from Seji. But it’s not Seji’s fault. The most cautious lab tech in the world wouldn’t be able to prevent Tristan from bruising. It’s just the nature of his disease and the meds he’s on. 

“I believe you,” Tristan repeats. 

They sit in silence once again, though with less hostility this time around. Their waiter takes advantage of the reprieve from tension and drops off their check. Jared reaches for it, but Tristan snags it two seconds before. 

Taking out his wallet, he says, “I got this one.” 

Jared nods. “Thank you.” After a moment, he adds, “Maybe I can come over to your place this Sunday. If that’s okay.”

With a smile, Tristan signs the merchant copy of the receipt, then looks at Jared. “Yeah. That works. Six sound good for you? Uh… what should I make? Is it okay if Miya and Kevin are there? Or maybe that we have dinner at her place?” Words fly out of his mouth as if he were the talkative twin. 

“Yes to everything,” Jared answers without missing a beat. He stands up first and stretches his arms over his head. “Yes, six is great. Yes, it’d be great if Miya and Kevin were there. Yes we can have dinner at her place. I’ll bring dessert. Does anyone have any allergies or restrictions?”

“Kevin doesn’t like blueberries, but that’s not really an allergy or a restriction.” Tristan stands and stretches just the same. He leaves a twenty dollar tip on the table. For crappy food, it’s a helluva tip. But for the service, it’s the best he can do. This place wasn’t so horrible. He’ll never come back on his own, under his own influence, but it wasn’t bad. He did not choke and die from eating here.

As they walk back to the mommy mobile, Tristan thinks back to when they were kids--when their entire world was Bible verses and beatings.

He catches Jared in a tight hug before climbing into the minivan. 

Come hell or high water, they’ll get through this.

Jared sniffles and returns the hug. He runs a hand through Tristan’s hair. 

Then, he murmurs, “One of these days we will be unsalted hot pearls. We will stand on a beach tasting a salt spray not made of tears and Midwest wind after everyone else has gone to sleep. We will peel down to the soft fruit. And for once it won’t hurt. And for once it will be on our terms.”

They are far and away from who they used to be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> poem "promissory" by rachel wiley in book "nothing is okay." 
> 
> phew. this took a lot out of me to write. shout out to D for the help writing this. shout out to T, to whom i give this to as a thank you for putting up with me. happy birthday, T, sorry it's a bit late. 
> 
> if this story was triggering for y'all, in encourage you to engage in self care, reach out, and maybe even take a rest. you are important. <3


End file.
